


Kolya's Sestina

by Orichalxos



Category: The Deed of Paksenarrion - Elizabeth Moon
Genre: Gen, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orichalxos/pseuds/Orichalxos
Summary: A sestina for a retired soldier.





	Kolya's Sestina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenn_Calaelen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenn_Calaelen/gifts).



On waking, she sometimes curses her flesh.   
The burn of dawn, the crackling of her limbs,   
It’s almost more than Kolya can bear.   
Almost. Her knees, her knuckles are red   
From hard use, and from age. The growth   
Of old adhesions tightens across her scars.

  
She rubs warm oil into her shoulder’s scar,   
Pulls on the robe. “Comfort the fragile flesh   
And bones of your animal body; it grows   
In harmony with great Tree’s sheltering limbs.”   
Kuakgannir words are unwritten and unread,   
But memory’s rote line’s easy enough to bear.   
  


Her first recruits called her Phelan’s Bear,   
For her tenacity - the same that earned her scar,   
When battle had turned the mud dark red   
And she’d paid for her troops’ retreat with her flesh.   
The same stubbornness that cost her a limb   
Now rooted her in Duke’s East, where she grew   
  


To councillor, advisor, watching the town grow   
And thrive. At noon, pacing like a caged bear,   
She listens to disputes under the oak’s limbs:   
Townsfolks’ arguments, old grievances, old scars,   
Affairs, petty dramas over ‘sins of the flesh’ -    
Until her questions turn the guilty faces red.   
  


Afternoon’s for orchard work, apples full and red.   
Musing as she walks the rows, choosing which will grow,   
Or be pruned back in search of sweeter flesh.   
Gauging how much fruit this tree will bear,   
Kneel to inspect grafts at the rootstock scar.   
Above her, the harvest pulls at strong limbs.   
  


She rests her weight against a trunk, her hand along a limb   
To watch the western sky turn shades of red.    
She feels at peace, with all her service scars   
Not forgotten, but eased within her soul’s growth.   
This lightness is hers; this hope is hers to bear   
Though age and time may weigh upon her flesh.   
  


Her trees bear fruit; the apples gold and red   
Limbs full of treasure; she plucks, bites into crisp flesh,   
Its sweetness grows and warms her aging scars.   



End file.
